


Love Lessons

by Cosmicobit



Category: Venom (Comics)
Genre: Alien Sex, Love, Making Love, Other, Romance, Venom has been a marriage since like 1994 but consummating it took some time, and that time is NOW, body horror in a benign way, gratuitous usage of the love word, molecule to molecule soul bonding love making, no like ALIEN sex like, oh and some vanilla sex too, post Venom 2018 #6, so.much.love.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 09:46:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16195019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmicobit/pseuds/Cosmicobit
Summary: “Would you teach us?” They urge.“To . . . Make love.”“Yes, Eddie.”You slide your thumb along the arc of their jaw, studying their eyes while your mouth is still hanging open like an idiot's. You stammer, and nod.“y—yes. Yes, of course.”Ofcourse.





	Love Lessons

 

If you've been separated from your other, it never fails that coming together again happens in a rush. You don't get to linger in the moment of joining—there always seems to be some kind of urgency, some bullshit happening outside of your world of two that you have to go deal with. The quiet always comes after _that_. But you can’t wait for quiet this time. Not this time. Not after—

You own a mattress on the floor of an apartment better described as a closet with attached bath.  There isn’t a shred of food in the place. The tap water can’t be trusted. But you sweep the two of you back to this dismal excuse for home without stopping for anything smart, like red meat for them and any sustenance at all for you. Maybe a beer to celebrate. No—you take yourselves straight home and fall back against the closing door gasping:

“I want to see you.”

Your other complies almost simultaneous to the thought, peeling away at your waist to wrap instead around your outstretched arm, great white eyespots fixed on your face.

“ _Darling—”_ You can hardly speak, but that word manages to escape and you’re glad for it.

“ _Eddie!”_

“I’m so—I thought—"

You can’t say it.

“ _I think we were, Eddie.”_ The most jagged edges of your mind constrict together to strangle thought— _don’t say_ that—and the constrictor grip around your forearm tightens in answer. They can feel those sharp edges in your head, the ones you couldn’t fix in their absence _._ That you kept trying to fix as if to make yourself hospitable for a homecoming all signs seemed to say would never come. But you knew. You felt it. And you fought like the kind of man they make you want to be to be ready for them again. If only they _lived—and they did._ They did. And they're here.

Now, here they are. Alive.  Alive. Alive, alive. Your living, breathing, perfect shadow.

“I'm so . . .” relieved? Glad? None of those feelings are big enough to describe what's in you right now. They fall flat and useless on your tongue and you wish emotions really did live in organs so you could tell your other to just reach a tendril around your heart and feel it with you, instead of having to say it. You used to get paid for words, but a fat lot of good they’re doing you now. They just can’t come close.

And yet, they understand.

They always understand.

“ _Me too, Eddie.”_ They say your name like a prayer, in that tone that almost makes it possible to believe that they need you as desperately as you need them.

And that does it, of course. That breaks you. Emotion cracks your voice in half as you sputter all the things you've been holding in—since you'd thought you'd lost them.

“I'm so sorry. I should have known, but it never occurred to me you were—"

“ _No! Should have told you . . . we set you up instead, afraid you wouldn’t agree—"_

. . . They’re right, of course. You wouldn’t have. If you’d known the plan could mean a suicide mission, you'd have doomed the rest of the world before going along with it. Not even a choice, that. It would have been a given.

“ _Had to protect everyone from Him—protect you.”_

 _None of that was worth your life,_ you want to retort, but the words catch in your throat.

“I'm still sorry,” you choke. “I didn’t realize until you were . . . gone, that I should have told you every second every single day how much I—" your breath hitches over the phrase, snagging on a lump in your throat the size of a planet.

“ _Love you, too, Eddie!”_

 _“_ —love you. My darling . . .” you should have said it in so many words sooner. Your other constricts your arm until they begin seeping into your pores, a warmth between the layers of your skin. “I love you. So . . .”

“ _More than anything, Eddie.”_

“I . . . yes, exactly. Me too. I wish I could show you how much—"

“ _Been trying to show you, too. Didn’t know how to say it, until . . . maybe still don’t know.”_

That almost splinters a smile from you.

“Oh, I think you're doing pretty well. It’s just that _I—_ "

“ _No!”_ momentarily shrill, as though urgent, your other cuts you off. They rear up from your arm and lean close to your face, all teeth, less human in their face than they’d been before . . . Everything that’s happened. But still yours, still real and solid and familiar.  

You’re cupping the sharp edge of their jaw with your free hand before you know what you’re doing.

“ _What I can say is_ _not enough. I want to_ show _you, not tell. But don’t know how to do it, how to . . . Make love. Klyntar don’t. Not sure where to start.”_

Your other speaks simply much of the time, thoughts too fast and foreign for the blocky shapes of English, their mind too thoroughly abused over the years, but their haphazard speech now, as you stare back in awestruck silence with your jaw falling open, you know is all from emotion.  Emotion at least as big as the feeling filling you, aching for an outlet.

“ _Show_.” You echo.

Show.

As if action could make up for all the instants the words weren't said, but you—shit. You can’t act _or_ speak now. _How . . ._ You want to. For so long, _how long?_ You’ve wanted to, you just. It never seemed. You never thought—

“ _Would you teach us?”_ They urge.

“To . . . Make love.”

“ _Yes, Eddie._ ”

You slide your thumb along the arc of their jaw, studying their eyes while your mouth is still hanging open like an idiot's. You stammer, and nod.

“y—yes. Yes, of course.”

Of _course._

Like a dream you walk the two of you to your bed, that lonely mattress with threadbare sheets tangled from restless sleep, and there they slide free of your arm to pool before you, bulky as another human being but shapeless, long and serpentine with their great elegant head an inch from your face. A nervous furrow over their eyes.

 _No, darling,_ you think, beyond speech again, _don’t be afraid._

Cupping their face in both your hands, you kiss them.

You press your mouth to the barely extant lip where flesh peels back from teeth, bottom lip striking gums as much as your partners oilslick skin, but it's all right. It's all, all right. All that matters is this new way to taste them, and whether the action can be enough to convey all the words you aren’t coherent enough to say aloud:

_Trust me._

_I will never do anything to make you afraid._

_I'd rather die._

One long kiss, you pull back slowly. They follow after, chasing down your mouth. Figures, it's like a movie—start slow and then lose your shit. Which you do. Utterly. You grasp their face so hard in your hands your own strength scares you and pull them so close, so deep into your kiss it bends them backward, long press, short pull, grasping soul to soul with your lips, you kiss a mouth not designed for kissing with abandon you never showed any girlfriend, any tryst, certainly never Anne. How you mistook that for marriage when _this_ exists—

There was so much you didn’t know before your other. Your beloved shadow. Your right hand slides behind their head, your left down the side of their presently serpentine body, grasping at every fold and twist and tendril that makes up their solid mass and pulling them close to your chest. They melt into the shape of you. Tendrils of black wind around you, holding you a reflex, snaking around your waist and ribs and shoulders—

And then nothing. They melt away again. Some corner of your heart blackens and dies as they go.

“What is it?”

“ _Want to feel more of your skin, Eddie.”_

 . . . You're still wearing clothes.

They could bleed right through the fibers down to your skin if they wanted to, but they're right. It's not the same. You retract and stand long enough to strip before kneeling opposite them once more on the mattress, your feet overhanging the side.

Ten or twenty thin tendrils come at you in a rush, wrap around your torso, and yank you back to them flesh to flesh—yes, they were right. _This_ is right. Its so much better to feel them pressed into you, thigh to sternum, as they trace a nuzzling outline of your face. You can feel them _move_ this way, ripples and shivers like water—

The way they shake and shudder, pulsing like waves as they cling to you, erases the drag of thoughts in your head and lets you begin to harden.

You know they can feel it.

They answer by adhering more tightly to your body, vacu-forming their shape to yours, as close as they can become without slipping into you like a second skin. Or a first skin—your own flesh feels like the auxiliary component most of the time.

With them fitted so close to your cock, when that ripple moves through them next, you feel it intimately. Its good enough to make you gasp, and their form desperately clenches about your shaft in answer, as if begging you to do it again. You’re helpless to comply. Breathing like a bellows into their skin, face falling into the crook between their head and one raised tendril, like breathing into a familiar shoulder, you groan.

“Darling . . ."

“ _Show us more—!”_

You keep your hold of the back of their head to bring them to you and press your tongue between their familiar teeth.

They squeal softly as their jaw cracks open to let you through, and their long tongue seizes yours, the prehensile muscle taking hold as if to pull you farther down their throat. And then, melding at a level deeper than flesh, their tongue blurs together with your tongue and you can taste the very back of their throat. But still they draw you deeper, until your entire frame falls forward and you have them laid out on the mattress beneath you, wrapped in your arms, the rest of them bundled tight around your aching cock, resting between your splayed knees. They cup and then ensnare your balls, too, so you're wearing them like a cock ring and then something else you're not sure the name for. Cage, maybe.

What you _know_ is how it feels. And it feels like sex _should_ feel, if bodies were perfect and just matched up. Slid right together like god wanted them to fit. Your other's form, their non-body, sliding over more of you as you kiss like a blanket from beneath, silk thin and skin-close in the light of a foggy window, encasing your thighs and back and creeping along the seam of your ass—it's better than anything you've ever felt _._

And no wonder: Your darling, being everywhere without you, makes the parts of you—tangled fingers, lapping tongue, deep thrust cock _—within_ feel so distant its as if you could reach back through the void and hold yourself through them. Some trick of physics. That’s what kissing them this way feels like.

You feel them in your mind, your tongues too entwined for verbal speech: **_inside, Eddie . . .?_**

_Sure, love._

_Anything you want._

You expect them for a moment to sink into your skin, but they don't. You're startled by the pressure out at the tip of your cock that spreads sharp and deep into the pit of your body, a tendril too thin for you to conceive of sliding _into_ your—you didn't know this was something a dick could even _do—_

But you _like it._

You gasp your tongue free of theirs, lifting your head free of your kiss not for need of space but need for oxygen.

“Love,” you stutter. “That's --" you can’t say. Words fail, leaving only soft animal sounds as you press your hips reflexively into where they lie amassed between you and the mattress. Tendrils wound around your thighs tighten and squeeze without sinking into the skin beneath. You clutch for purchase, taking handfuls of shadow and mattress. They grip you back.

And all the while they’re seeping deeper.  That thread they’ve reached down inside of you thickening, lengthening until aching pressure finds a point in you that you hadn’t thought could be reached from that direction.  You've reached it from behind before, once very drunk with Anne and a few times more before that with men in college dorm rooms when the girls who followed you home felt like nothing and the appraising eyes of boys who wanted to take you like a trophy felt, by contrast, like something. It hadn't felt like this, then. You never used to cry out so low and sharp and loud.

_That sound—!_

“’means’it feels good, --" its hard to speak, you can’t even, with any real rhythm, even _breathe—_

_“I like it, Eddie.”_

They tighten around so much of you at once your splayed legs quake.

“ _Want to hear it again.”_

And they slide a massaging point of pressure around inside you until you comply. Repeatedly. Longer sounds, higher and lower, shaking growls between frantic breaths that wont support words to convey what it _feels_ like, not just the way they're touching you, but how it feels to be inside of _them_ while they’re twisting deep in _you_ , permeating layers of tissue and setting nerves on fire—

And beyond that, there's what it feels like to have them holding to the front of your body like a second skin as all that happens. How it feels to have fistfuls of them in your hands and their great white eyes staring up at you over an unhinged mouth. All those beautiful teeth.

“’Here,” you choke, pulling yourself upright with them gathered to your chest. They adjust with you to upright as you plant one foot, bending that knee to buy leverage for the hips they’re clinging to. You’re still inside them. They're still inside you. But not all the way. Not quite enough.

“Go, inside. My head, look—I want you to feel—" you stutter.

And then comes the smooth, solid-liquid feeling in your mouth, tasting like ozone smells, as they reach inside of you, sliding over your tongue, through your sinuses, weaving into your skull, diving through your eye sockets back to your brain. Lacing around your ocular nerves so that you see bright and painless fireworks for an instant as they grasp for you.

 _Do you feel,_ you think in staccato, _can you . . .? What you feel like . . . To me?_

**_Yes—_ **

Loud and breathless in your head. **_Yes, Eddie!_**

_I love you . . . More than anything . . ._

Your partner trills your name aloud and closes tighter around your body. Reaches deeper. Reaches now from both directions, slipping into you from behind. Pushes blunt and thick at that point deep inside of you again, the one that makes you scream. you feel them flinch from the sound.

 _Wait_! _don’t stop, keep— “_ ’s a good sound . . . _God—"_

 ** _Is gone, eddie. You killed him. A hero._** A smirk in their head-voice. A _flirt,_ a _tease_ , Jesus, but they don’t really need to be _taught_ anything, do they?

_Only with you, lo—_

You try to retort in salacious kind, but can’t. Even your thoughts grind to garbled nonsense. You cant even breathe, let alone think, saved only by instinct, the automatic reflex of in and out keeps you alive as other carnal instincts move your hips in the grip of your other. Rough, messy, deep, hard. Thrusts you can’t guide, the snap of your hips, slow and heavy and growing faster, an animal reaction you don’t want to control.

“ _Eddie . . .?”_

 _“_ love--I—I,”

You can’t say it, punctuating your own sentences with groans and whines and you should slow down, you should measure this. But they're   _in you_ from _every_ angle and it’s the like the center of gravity in your body has moved and all you are is now trapped, caught in that event horizon, circling that deep point inside you and all you are screaming to get back out of that well, to reach for them, your darling, to be in them too, in them, with them, _with them_ inseparably, irrevocably—

“ _Eddie--!”_

They can feel it before it happens, as you gasp into their flesh along their neck, sinking your fingers into the back of their form to be swallowed up and held there despite your spasming grip. Your orgasm into them is long and violent. The sounds from you not human. The weakness it leaves you with a sort of nirvana.

“I'm sorry,” you gasp, “darling. That . . . Was . . . Too fast—"

_“No, Eddie. Not sorry.”_

Their tone is firm as they withdraw tendrils from inside you—prompting you to cry and quake helplessly—and elsewhere encircle you. They wrap you in the blanket of their being as if to become the suit, but stopping short, instead bringing you swaddled down onto your back on the mattress. Head an inch from yours, with a moment of sharp sensation as they nip your jaw to punctuate the words, they tell you:

“ _My turn.”_

You lift your head and strain your neck to kiss them again, the rest of your body pinned in place by their surrounding you. Slender tendrils cup the back of your head to hold you there. And they kiss you back.

Not like your kiss, defined lips seeking some feature to which to hold, their kiss is a blending of beings, their sharp teeth knocking against yours and then blurring together with them, fusing the two of you by your bones. And in that shared skull, your jaw cast wide open to beg for them, your tongues entwine again until the definition between them grows hazy, until you can taste the back of your own mouth. It's tart to them in the way of a sour candy—strong but palatable—and the dip from hard to soft palate feels, via the sensation you share with them, like a nook in your skull carved out especially for them to fit in.

Their mouth tastes like heat.

Your darling spreads over your face like a surgical mask, shivering when you gasp for breath, maintaining that utter control of your life for a split second before breathing for you instead, sending pure oxygen that makes your head spin through your nose. There is no breathing to be done from your mouth—you barely have one. A two headed beast, where their flesh met your lips, is now becoming one. You’re consuming each other. Trying to drink the taste of whatever essence they have which lets your beloved feel so sharply without a heart. So deeply—you’ve felt the churn of their thoughts, their joy and agony. You've shared more than minds in these many years, more than bodies.

Yet you have no precedent for how the two of you are melding now.

With surgical precision, extensions of them have slid into your wrists, penetrating the veins there to form a slow IV drip of _them_ into your bloodstream. You can feel your pulse carrying them, a simultaneous hotcold in your veins. Spreading. Filling you down to capillaries so small the sensation in them blurs and tingles like pins and needles. All this happening while they're also wrapped around you—tendrils entwine with and pull on your hair.

 ** _Love you_** , you feel in your mind, repeating like an echo. **_Want to be close to you, always . . ._**

_‘want you closer, too . . ._

Even with them wrapped all around you, your jaws merged, their substance bleeding into your veins, surely, there must be some way to get closer.

Reflexively, your fingers twitch against their body in which they've encased you, pressing divots into them where their flesh receives you. They take your hands.

They absorb your reaching fingers and let them run with expanding molecules and stretching cells in long rivulets through their being. You can feel the way your own weight feels to _them_ where the two of you blend. And blend. Overflowing your veins, they bleed freely from every pore back through your flesh, capturing the essential building blocks of your physical being as they go. Cells. Atoms. Molecules. Theirs enter yours and draw them into strange new shapes, into a form no longer recognizably yours. And in so doing, they become you. Your limbs are them, and they are you. The two of you knit together in skin and muscle and sinew, the very fibers of your heart made for a moment as much of them as you. You lose your sense of definition in your face, too, your half-melded kiss becoming a completely undiscernible, perfect unification of the two of you. You aren’t wearing them. It's not a suit. It’s a formless perfect blending of their being seeped into every single minute element of who and what you are. And in your mind, your incorporeal mind, you feel them say:

**_This is how you feel to me._ **

Lying in an undifferentiated heap of their essence and yours, with a pang in your interwoven heartstrings, you understand the sensation they're conveying: their absolute comfort in being intermixed with you, in being inseparable from you.

 _We feel,_ you answer, _whole._

_And so much else, too . . ._

**_Love so much it hurts, Eddie. Can you feel it?_ **

_Yes darling_ —if you were still your body, the _violence_ with which you feel it would wrench you apart, _I feel it. I feel it too._

**_Feel the same . . ._ **

_Yes, exactly. Exactly—_

it's hard for them, you also feel, to maintain this molecular level bond with you in such a way that it defies form and structure. Your body wants to return to its own shape. And their body—their body wants to sink into the natural shape of you and take refuge in your familiar organs.

 _Come, love,_ you urge. _Come into me._

In an instant your elongated being contracts back to its own human shape, your molecules and whatever else you’re made of falling back into place as their body collapses back out of your cells and into a comfortable, condensed, languid lump of familiar weight in your chest. They come to rest with a shudder that quakes in your arms and legs and puts skips into the beat of your heart.

They dwell for long minutes in your chest cavity, spent and finally content with the feelings they’ve conveyed to you, while you lie staring at the ceiling through half lidded eyes you're aware are sending tears running from their corners. Not sadness, something bigger. A feeling so strong your body weeps just to relieve the staggering force of it.  You lie there naked, just breathing, silent and unsad tears rolling from your eyes, until your other emerges around you again. A familiar suit. Your truest skin.

Venom _._

“My love,” you mutter in the growl of your shared voice. “my love, my love.”

In one voice, you speak to each other. You lay a clawed hand across your chest to hold your heart, and them.

“My darling forever.”

The word echoes in your mind in two voices: _forever._

_Love you forever._

Love to make and remake with every breath and every word, and more nights like this coming apart at the seams in your bed, clutching at one another, saying the same thing over and over every time. _I love you_ , said again and again, as many times as it takes, as many times as your mind can stand. _I love you,_ finally shown. And you will continue to show it. Every night, every opportunity—so long as you both shall live.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                     


End file.
